Red Jungle (20 page)

Two boys stared at him. He gave them a ten Q note, hoping they would leave him alone. One of the boys grabbed it before the other could. The smaller boy with no T shirt, just an open wool jacket, stared at Russell for a moment, stunned at the size of the bill, then turned to grab it away from his friend. The boy with the money was already halfway across the empty street by the time the other one realized what had happened.

The running boy dropped his roses as he made for an alley, the scattered red flowers ominous and beautiful in the street light.

“You haven’t returned my calls,” Katherine said, sitting down.

“I’m sorry,” he said. She looked at him for a moment. The waiter, who knew Russell as a heavy tipper, was there in a flash, his starched white apron food-splattered.

“What will you have?” the waiter asked.

“A glass of wine,” Katherine said.

“The Chilean for the young lady,” Russell said. He took a sip of his drink.

The street was quiet now. It was a time of night he liked. During the day he was nervous, waiting for Carlos’s men to pick him up from his office or wherever he ate lunch, and kill him without saying a word. He was being followed everywhere now. He wondered if he would be brave when the time came, or if he’d spill his guts and cry and carry on like a coward. He wasn’t sure he could be brave after a beating.

“How about the shrimp? They’re good here,” he suggested.

“I’m not hungry,” she said. She was dressed nicely, and he wondered where she’d come from. A white blouse and black skirt. Her hair glistened in the harsh light from inside the restaurant. The waiter left them.

“Carlos will kill you. You know that. I wouldn’t like that,” she said.

“I’ll get a better gun,” he joked.

“Don’t be a fool,” Katherine said.

The waiter brought her drink. Suddenly Russell was hungry; he’d had nothing to eat since lunch and suddenly he was hungry. He ordered a plate of shrimp and a plate of Serrano ham and Manchego, and another glass of wine for himself.

“I’m waiting for the click. Remember Paul Newman in
Cat On A Hot Tin Roof?
Newman’s character was right when he said there’s a click, and then you feel better,” he said. “It takes me three drinks. Just like in the movie.”

“She’s just using you. I’ve heard stories about her. She’s crazy. The drugs she took in London. She’s not all there, Russell,” Katherine said.

The waiter brought their food. A car came slowly down the street. Russell turned to look at it. It was a green Chevy Suburban, its windows tinted dark. The passenger’s window cracked open a bit as it drove by. Russell felt his heart rate jump. He touched his hand to his chin, feeling the stubble of his beard.

“I’m aware of her reputation,” he said. “It doesn’t really matter to me.”

“Why were you so mean to me?” she asked. He hadn’t expected that question. “That night. Why didn’t you just come out and say what you wanted from me?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it.

“You’re sorry?”

“Yes. I am, believe it or not. I apologize.”

“You’re a prick,” she said. She looked away for a moment. The other tables on the little porch were empty now. Russell didn’t answer. “I think you’re crazy. Why are you doing this?”

“Look. I don’t know what good this is going to do. I said I was sorry.” He started to get up.

“Sit down, Russell.” She took his hand. “Please.”

He glanced inside. There were a few people at the bar, three men and their girlfriends. The women were talking together. One of them glanced outside at them. He wanted to go, but he told himself he owed Katherine this for what he’d made her do that night at the Q Bar. The fact was he was ashamed of himself, deeply ashamed of the way he’d treated her.

“All right,” he said, and sat down.

“I’m in love with you,” she said. “And I’m worried about you. What you’re doing.”

“Don’t be. I know what I’m doing. I’m the last person in the world you want to fall in love with. You said so yourself once. I’m a prick. Remember? A capitalist free trader.”

“Do
you know what you’re doing?” she asked.

“Yes. It’s all under control. We’re having a quiet affair in Central America.”

“You think so? I saw you at the hotel the other day in Antigua. I was in the restaurant with the general.
She
had lunch with us.”

“You’re lying,” he said, shocked. “Carlos was in Honduras that day.” The idea that Beatrice would lie to him had never crossed his mind.

“You met her there at the Santo Domingo, didn’t you?”

“Yes. If you have to know. But I’m an adult, and I didn’t. . .”

“Stop it! Don’t you see, that woman’s
crazy
. He was there.
Carlos
. We had a meeting. She got up from the table and made some lame excuse about a tennis game. I knew right away where she was going. I knew you must be there waiting for her,” Katherine said.

“I don’t see what business that is of yours,” he said defensively.

“I’m making it my business. I don’t want anything to happen to you,” she said. “You have to stop this. Do you want me to beg you?”

“Nothing is going to happen to me.” He picked up his drink and drained it. He reached for his cigarettes, pulled them out, and lit one. She watched him light it. He felt the third drink’s effect, but it didn’t stop his heart from racing now that he knew Beatrice had lied to him.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” she said.

“Listen. I’ve been thinking, my mother’s place. The place on the coast. Maybe you could go build some houses there.”

“Don’t change the subject. Why do you want to die?”

“I don’t,” he smiled, trying to put her off.

The shrimp came, a huge platter. He wasn’t hungry anymore. He put out his cigarette, and picked up a shrimp, and put it on his plate. He could feel her watching him. Katherine ordered another drink, and the waiter left.

“You must want to die . . . or is it because she’s so beautiful? Is that it? Is that what you want? Is it because I’m not?”

He put down his fork. She had a pained expression on her face, on the verge of tears, her narrow face cut by the shadows of the candlelight mixing with the shallow wan lights of the street. He hadn’t believed her when she said she was in love with him. He’d heard that before from women who just felt bad that they’d lost out to someone else. But suddenly, looking at her, he thought it might be true. She seemed changed.

“I don’t fall in love every day,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “These things, they’re not reasonable. You know that. Attractions are not predictable.” He didn’t know what to say.

“Okay. But I can’t stand the thought of what you’re doing. Why don’t you help me with that?”

He picked up his fork, stabbed a piece of cheese, put it on some bread, and put it in his mouth. He wanted to go home. He didn’t want to hear any more questions he couldn’t answer. He didn’t have any answers for her. He knew now he was going to leave the paper and search for the Jaguar. And when he found it, he would take Beatrice and her children away to Europe or America. He wanted to marry Beatrice and make her his wife.

“Waiter!” She ordered another drink by holding up her glass. The waiter inside nodded. He’d been leaning against the bar, relaxing. Russell watched him move behind the bar, grab a bottle of red wine, and come out to them.

“You’ve gone crazy. You didn’t strike me as the crazy type,” she said. “I know a lot of gringos come here and go crazy. Let go, I guess you’d call it. Let go of their self-respect, but I didn’t think you were the type. ”

“All right. You’re hurt. I understand that.” He decided he wouldn’t get up and leave no matter what she said. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was losing himself. Was that it? Was he losing his mind? Did he want to die?

The waiter filled their glasses. He noticed the look on their faces and asked if everything was all right.

“No, it isn’t. The
Americano
is crazy,” Katherine said. The waiter looked at Russell and smiled.

“He’s fucking someone’s wife, and they will probably kill him,” Katherine said in Spanish. The waiter, trapped now by their argument, didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t funny anymore.

“I think we’ll have the bill,” Russell said.

“Which one?” Katherine said. “This one? You mean mine or his? I’m not finished yet,” she said. “I’m going to lose my self-respect, too. Maybe that’s what you like? Or maybe you just want to fuck me in the ass, or put a gun to my head while we do it. Is it danger you’re after? Is that all it is? I can do that too. If that’s what you want. Is that what you want?”

“I think we should go,” he said, shocked. “I think you’ve had enough to drink.”

“No!” she said. “No, I don’t think we should go. I think you should explain why I have to fall in love with a worthless shit like you. Can you?” She started to cry.

Russell almost didn’t see the green Suburban stop and discharge a short Indian man, very young and natty-looking, wearing a gunman’s vest. The man walked toward them, then past them and into the bar, his right hand holding a pistol.

Russell watched as he approached one of the men at the bar. He put the pistol right to the back of the man’s head and fired. The man’s skull seemed to come apart. And then the gunman turned and jogged past them, not looking at them.

Katherine had stopped crying and stared, as Russell had, as the Suburban pulled away from the curb. All they heard then was the screaming behind them in the bar. Just one woman, framed in the window, screaming at the top of her lungs.

They got a cab down the street in front of the Camino Real before the police came. Katherine hadn’t spoken since the moment the shot was fired. Even in the cab, when he was asking her the exact address of her place, she didn’t answer him. So they’d gone to his place instead.

He’d put her in the guest bedroom, but in the middle of the night she came into his room and asked if she could get in bed with him, because she was scared. He said that she could.

She slipped into his bed and put her arms around him. He liked it. He liked her, and he wondered why he couldn’t let Beatrice go. Was it, he wondered as he held Katherine, the fact that Beatrice was so beautiful? Was that
all
it was? Or was it that he was stealing Beatrice from someone else, someone he’d been jealous of? He wasn’t sure anymore. Or had he simply come back to this country to die? Why else had he come back here after all those years?

He’d never really asked himself that question before. What possible reason had he to come back? He felt Katherine’s arms around him, and she kissed the side of his neck, touched his stomach. She tried to kiss his mouth. He didn’t let her at first, not wanting any more trouble. And then he did, because he wanted to, and she wanted to. They made love tenderly, like young kids, but he didn’t love her. He knew that.

EIGHTEEN

Carl hasn’t sent me the money,” Russell said. “He will,” Mahler said. “It takes time to sell these things.” “I’m quitting the newspaper. I’m going to work for De La Madrid’s campaign full-time,” Russell said. “Why would you do that?” Mahler said. “He’s going to lose. Any fool can see that.”

There was heavy static on the line. Russell could barely hear Mahler, who’d called from
Tres Rios
to ask for more money.

“Why the fuck should you care? You told me you don’t give a shit about politics,” Russell said.

“I don’t,” Mahler said. “That’s true.”

The fact was, Russell was going to be fired. His boss, having discovered that Russell had lied about giving up Beatrice, had told London about their affair. It was only a matter of time, he knew, before he would be either sent back to New York or London or fired altogether. He didn’t intend to leave Guatemala without Beatrice. He was in love, and it was impossible to think of leaving without her.

He knew that in order to have her he would need a great deal of money. He had to be able to offer her something better than what she had here. He had to be able to offer her a fine place for her children and a future worth having. If he had money, he could ask her to leave Carlos; without it, how could he? He was counting on finding the Red Jaguar now, not for the thrill of the search, but as a way of having Beatrice.

“Tell that little motherfucker I need ten thousand dollars, and soon,” Russell said. “I owe that Frenchman another payment.”

“All right,” Mahler said. “I’ll tell him.”

“I’m not joking, Gustav.” He felt a new urgency, a violent need for money. He had never felt like this before. He knew he was capable of anything. He felt himself going over the edge.

“All right, I’ll tell him,” Mahler said again.

“He’s got the fucking snake; I want my money.”

Mahler didn’t answer him this time. There was just the static of their phone connection.

“We need food, and I have to pay these men I’ve hired,” Mahler said after a moment.